Stealing Kisses From a Boy
by Sara Wolfe
Summary: Twenty-five kisses between Shawn and Carlton - and all that pesky plot in between.
1. What? You want me to kiss it better?

**Author's Note:** This is the first story for my bingo card over at the kiss_bingo community at LiveJournal. And I'm going for a blackout, which means that there's twenty-four more to go.

**Stealing Kisses From a Boy**

**"What? You want me to kiss it better?" (body: toes)**

The bust had been going wrong from the second he walked through the door. He'd spent over a month establishing credibility with the dealers, buried himself in the identity he'd created, and the only other person at the department who knew about it was the Chief – he hadn't even breathed a word of his assignment to O'Hara. All to catch the SOB who'd sold drugs to his neighbor's son and put the kid in the hospital.

And now he found himself staring down the barrel of a nine millimeter, watching his life flash before his eyes.

He was surrounded by nervous men with twitchy trigger fingers, and he was barely breathing for fear of setting one of them off. He was so beyond screwed, right now.

As the lead dealer stalked forward, gun trained on his heart, Carlton started to regret giving up on his Catholic upbringing. He had a moment to wonder if it was too late to get in good with the man upstairs when a sound like a gunshot echoed through the warehouse.

Reflexively, he looked down at his chest, expecting to see blood blossoming from a hole in his heart, but he wasn't hurt. And when he looked back up a second later, his would-be captors had all ducked instinctively at the sound, looking around for the hidden shooter.

Taking the opportunity they'd left open, Carlton kicked the nearest one in the face, sending him flying backward and knocking the gun from his hand. Grabbing the gun, he bolted across the warehouse for the relative safety offered by the stacks of shipping pallets.

He managed to make it to make it behind the nearest stack of pallets without getting a bullet in the back, breathing a quiet sigh of relief only when he was sure he was safe. He took a quick look around to assess his situation, and that was when he saw the broken brick lying in the middle of the warehouse. And when another brick joined the first one, with a crack that echoed throughout the warehouse, he realized that had been the gunshot that had made his escape possible.

"Give it up, cop!" one of the dealers yelled, his voice echoing through the warehouse.

He wondered if they'd gone into hiding at the sound of the pseudo-gunshots, but he realized that they couldn't take the chance of him escaping, even if someone was firing on them. Now, the men were prowling around the warehouse trying to find him, and swearing underneath his breath, he started to move, keeping a wary eye out for his pursuers.

Carlton wasn't complaining about the chance he'd gotten to escape, but he was wondering how his unexpected backup had found him. It wasn't like the Chief would have told anyone in the department what he was up to, and he couldn't think of anyone who knew him well enough to figure it out on their own.

He risked a quick glance up at the catwalk, figuring that where the bricks had been thrown from, but for a second, all he saw was shadows. Then, he caught a flash of movement, of someone crawling along the catwalk. Then, a hand snaked out over the edge of the catwalk, pointing almost directly downward.

Taking a chance, Carlton craned his head around the stack of pallets he was hiding behind, and saw two of the dealers standing underneath the catwalk. He bit back a smirk as he sighted along his borrowed gun, aiming for their legs. Two shots later, and the pair were on the ground, screaming, as they curled around their newly-shattered kneecaps.

Carlton nodded, briefly, at his unknown rescuer, getting a quick thumbs-up in return. Then he started moving around the edges of the warehouse, again. He dispatched two of the remaining three dealers in quick succession, leaving only the leader.

"You're surrounded, Mulvaney!" he yelled, taking a chance and addressing the other man. "Give up, now!"

"Like I'm afraid of two cops," Mulvaney sneered.

"The entire building is surrounded, you idiot," a new voice called out, and Carlton wondered what cosmic power he'd pissed off recently, that his rescuer would be Shawn Spencer.

"Yeah, right," Mulvaney replied, and that was all Carlton needed to pinpoint the other man's location.

Moving quietly, he snuck up behind Mulvaney and had the barrel of his gun at the back of the other man's neck before he could even twitch. Mulvaney froze, his hands going slowly in the air, and Carlton made the rookie mistake of relaxing his guard.

The next thing he knew, something had slammed into the side of his face, knocking him to the ground. When his vision cleared, he found himself staring up at Mulvaney, who had the gun pointed at his head.

"Time to die," Mulvaney said, in a sing-song tone, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"Hey!" Spencer yelled, suddenly, his voice startling loud, and Carlton rolled to the side as Mulvaney jerked, the bullet hitting a spot about a foot away from where he'd been.

Mulvaney spun around, his gun tracking upward, and Carlton swore when he saw Spencer directly in the man's sights. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, he tackled Mulvaney, knocking the gun out of his hands a second after it went off.

He had Mulvaney down and restrained in a matter of seconds, tightening the handcuffs around his wrists. Then, he looked up toward the catwalk for Spencer, but the younger man wasn't there.

For a heartbeat, he was sure that Spencer was dead, and the thought had his heart leaping into his throat. Then, he heard a quiet groan coming from the direction of the catwalk, and he started breathing, again.

After he made sure that Mulvaney couldn't possibly go anywhere, he approached the catwalk carefully, in case it wasn't Spencer. But, the younger man was lying on the concrete underneath the catwalk, sprawled bonelessly with his right leg at an unnatural angle.

Spencer opened his eyes as Carlton got near him, and he could see pain in the other man's eyes.

"Tried to catch myself on the railing as I was going over," he said, weakly, flopping a hand for emphasis. "I heard something rip before my fingers gave out, and I'm pretty sure I dislocated my shoulder."

"You're lucky you're not dead," Carlton said, kneeling carefully next to the other man to assess his condition. "How did you even find me?"

"Psychic, remember?" Spencer said, his eyes falling shut as he fought to stay conscious. "I wasn't lying about those cops, by the way. I called the Chief on my way here."

"Then where the hell are they?" Carlton growled, looking around instinctively for the promised backup.

"No idea," came the slurred reply. "You can yell at them when they get here."

"Oh, I will," Carlton vowed, but his words fell on deaf ears as Spencer finally passed out.

A few seconds later, he heard the screaming of sirens in the distance, and he straightened up, ready to lay into the first person to walk through the door.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

His cell phone rang for the third time since he'd sat down, but when he saw O'Hara's number on the screen, he shoved it back in his pocket, ignoring the sound. His partner had been trying to apologize ever since she and a dozen uniformed officers had arrived at the warehouse, but he was too angry to listen.

The backup Spencer had called for had been late because O'Hara had brushed him off, and now he was in surgery because of it. And, whatever his feelings for the fake psychic, the man was a civilian and shouldn't have had to do a cop's job because the real cops couldn't be bothered. He certainly shouldn't have been injured, even if he had saved Carlton's life in the process.

Carlton hadn't spoken to any of them when they'd burst through the warehouse doors except to bark orders about taking Mulvaney and his cronies into custody. He hadn't even taken the time to yell at the group, even though they deserved it – although he was saving it up for later. Instead, he'd bullied his way into the ambulance and ridden to the hospital with a still-unconscious Spencer.

Now, he was sitting in the waiting room, his fingers tapping a staccato beat on his leg as he watched the second hand on his watch creep by with agonizing slowness. He hadn't been allowed to go with Spencer once they'd reached the hospital, but he had been taken to an examining room for stitches, since his head was bleeding, sluggishly, from the blow he'd taken. And then he'd been released by the treating doctor with a strict admonition to rest, which he immediately ignored.

He'd found his way to the surgery waiting area, instead, and, after convincing a nurse to get him the second anyone knew anything about Spencer, he'd sat down in a chair and waited. That had been nearly an hour ago.

"Detective Lassiter?"

He looked up at the sound of his name, to see a doctor in scrubs standing in front of him.

"We've got Mr. Spencer stabilized," she told him, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Is he okay?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly rough, and he cleared his throat to get rid of the lump that had formed there.

"His worst injury is a broken leg," the doctor told him, sitting down in the chair beside him. "He fractured his femur when he fell, not to mention fracturing his tibia in two places. His left arm is dislocated, along with torn muscles and two broken fingers. And he's got some bruised ribs, thanks to that bullet."

Carlton nodded, thanking God that Spencer had the sense to wear a bulletproof vest before coming in after him. Otherwise, he'd be in the morgue, right now, and that was something that Carlton really didn't want to think about. Ever, if he could help it.

"I can take you to see him," the doctor told him, and Carlton stood up in reply.

"Let's go," he said, shortly.

The walk to Spencer's room was quiet, which, unfortunately, gave Carlton time to think about things that he'd been resolutely trying to ignore for the past couple of hours. Like why he was getting so worked up over Spencer, of all people. And why the thought of losing the other man felt like he'd just gotten punched in the stomach. Things that he really didn't feel comfortable bringing into the light of day.

Thankfully for his peace of mind, they arrived at Spencer's room, and the doctor stopped him before he could enter.

"I should warn you," she cautioned, "he looks in worse shape than he's really in. There's a lot of superficial bruising that should fade within the next week or so, but right now he looks pretty rough."

"Considering that the alternative is dead," Carlton told her, dryly, "anything else is an improvement."

"He's also pretty loopy from all of the pain medication we've got him on," the doctor warned him, and Carlton smirked.

"That's not the drugs, Doc," he told her, pushing past her to enter the room. "That's just Spencer."

He heard the doctor leaving behind him, but his attention was focused on the man lying in the bed. His right leg was suspended in a traction set-up, with a thick white cast covering his foot and running all the way up to his mid-thigh. His toes peeked out, barely visible at the end of the cast. His left arm was tucked against his chest and secured in a sling, and his hand was heavily wrapped in a bandage, with his middle two fingers taped to a splint.

The doctor had been right about the bruising; Spencer looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a prize fighter. Pretty much every inch of exposed skin was covered in varying shades of black and blue, and Carlton winced in sympathy. The bruises, alone, had to hurt like hell.

"Gonna sign my cast?" Spencer slurred, sleepily, and Carlton jumped in surprise.

"Thought you were asleep," he said, as he walked over to the bed.

"Just resting my eyes," Spencer told him, turning his head in the direction of Carlton's voice even though his eyes stayed firmly closed. "Too much work to open 'em."

"I owe you my life," Carlton began, figuring he'd get the hard stuff out of the way, but Spencer waved his uninjured hand at him.

"I was just practicing my Superman imitation," he said, airily. "Thought I could fly."

"Next time, stick to being Clark Kent," Carlton told him, and Spencer let out a short bark of laughter at the unexpected teasing.

A second later, a spasm of pain flashed across his face, and he instinctively tried to curl around the injured area to protect it. It was a completely unconscious move, but it still hurt him, and Carlton pushed him gently back into the bed to keep him from trying again as he rode out the waves of pain. Tears had sprang to the corners of his eyes in reaction, and Carlton reached out to wipe them away before he realized what he was doing. He snatched his hand away like he'd been burned, but Spencer didn't seem to notice his slip-up.

"Damn drugs aren't working," he gasped, breathlessly.

"What? You want me to kiss it better?" Carlton asked, thoughtlessly, trying to distract Spencer from the pain.

But, from the way the younger man had gone still beneath his hand, his words had made an impact. Carlton was completely still as he waited to see what Spencer would do, and then a smile forced its way across the younger man's face.

"Well, I did save your life," he joked, weakly, and Carlton knew it was Spencer's way of defusing the sudden tension and giving him an out.

And, really, he should have taken it. He should have just left well enough alone. Instead, before he could think about what he was doing, he found himself bending forward and pressing a quick, dry kiss to Spencer's toes, the only part of him not covered in a multitude of bruises.

Spencer's foot jerked under his mouth, moving as much as the cast would allow, and when he straightened up, the other man was staring at him with an expression akin to shock.

"Feel better?" Carlton asked, his voice gone suddenly hoarse with strain.

Spencer's mouth moved soundlessly for a couple of seconds, and when he finally spoke, his voice was as rough as Carlton's.

"Yeah," he said, quietly. "I'm feeling a lot better, thanks."

"My pleasure," Carlton said, automatically, as he wondered just what the hell he was supposed to do, now.


	2. I guess chivalry isn't dead, after all

**"I guess chivalry isn't dead, after all." (face: jaw line)**

"Carlton, are you listening to me?"

Juliet sighed when her partner continued to stare at the report on his computer screen without seeing it. He'd been distracted for the past two weeks, ever since Shawn Spencer had gotten hurt in the warehouse bust. It was baffling, really; she hadn't known that Carlton had cared so much about the other man.

"Carlton?" she prompted, nudging at his shoulder and watching him jerk in surprise at the contact of her hand on his arm.

"What?" he muttered, peevishly, glaring at her.

"You haven't heard a word I've been saying, have you?" she asked.

"What do you want, O'Hara?" he asked, shortly, and she flinched at the distant tone in her partner's voice.

He also hadn't been talking to her for the past two weeks, except for work related matters. O'Hara wasn't stupid, she knew she'd screwed things up, royally. But, Shawn and his theatrics had just been getting on her last nerve, lately, and when he'd called her, insisting that it was life or death, she'd blown him off with some excuse and had hung up on him.

She should have known that something was up when Shawn had called back, with that same, desperate tone in his voice. But, she'd snapped something about how she was swamped with work, and how she didn't have time for his drama queen act, and then she'd hung up before he could get another word out. It had taken another five minutes of her guilty conscience gnawing at her before she'd gone to the Chief with Shawn's frantic phone call. But by then, she was too late.

"I was just asking your opinion about those home invasions on Berkeley," she said, when Carlton huffed out an impatient breath and waited for her to get to the point. "Do you think there's anything there worth looking into, deeper?"

"Everything is worth a deeper look," he said, icily, and she winced at the not-so-subtle censure in his voice.

"Look," she said, exasperatedly, trying to apologize for probably the hundredth time in two weeks, "I'm sorry, all right. I screwed up, and it will never happen, again."

Carlton just grunted out a wordless acknowlegement, his eyes fixed firmly on his computer screen as he turned his attention back to the report waiting for him.

"I'm not really the person you should be saying that to, don't you think?" he finally said, without looking over at her.

The worst part was, he was right. The person she really needed to apologize to was Shawn, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to talk to the other man. She'd tried, dozens of times, but she could never get the words out. She just wound up babbling, aimlessly, and sounding like some kind of idiot while Shawn stared at her in disbelief.

She hated that she couldn't say two simple words: "I'm sorry", but part of that, she reasoned, was Shawn's fault. After all, it wasn't as though he had apologized to her for what he'd done. Everything had been fine between them a while back, Shawn flirting badly with her while she just laughed it off, but then, about a month ago, it was as though a switch had been flipped.

He'd come to the station to talk the Chief into giving him a case, and he'd been perfectly nice to her. There had been no flirting, no barely-hidden glances, no thinly-veiled innuendo, and it had thrown her for a loop. Seemingly overnight, he'd started treating her like he would any other person. There'd never been any explanation, and she'd been hurt by his sudden shift in attitude.

So, maybe she'd adjusted her own attitude, in turn. She'd started treating him completely professionally, although she was ashamed to admit that her professionalism had slipped from time to time, as she let her emotions take control and dictate how she dealt with Shawn.

"I was an idiot," she said, quietly, but from the way Carlton's hands stilled on his keyboard, it was obvious that he'd heard her.

"Yep," he agreed, while she blushed, faintly. "You were an idiot."

Hearing her words parroted back at her made her unaccountably angry, and she glared at the man who still wasn't looking at her.

"You're my partner," she snapped. "Aren't you supposed to be on my side with all of this?"

"All of what?" he asked, rhetorically. "You screwed up. You won't do it, again. End of story."

"Thanks, partner," she muttered, dryly.

Stalking across the squad room, she sat down at her own desk, pulling up the file for her most recent case. She pointedly ignored her partner as she worked on her report, striking the keys on her keyboard a little harder than necessary. She could feel his eyes on her from across the squad room as he watched her work, and she shifted, uncomfortably under his direct gaze.

She felt like she had as a kid the few times her parents had caught her doing something wrong, and she knew that it was her own guilty conscience speaking. Twice, she picked up her cell phone and started dialing Shawn's number, to just get it done and over with, but both times she flipped her phone shut before she could complete the call.

Carlton was right; she needed to apologize. But she wasn't going to let herself take the easy way out, by talking to him over the phone where she didn't have to look at him, or worse, by leaving a voicemail so that she didn't have to talk to him at all. No, when she apologized for her error in judgment, it was going to be face to face, no matter how uncomfortable it made her feel.

"Let's get lunch," Carlton said, suddenly, standing and grabbing his coat off the back of his chair.

"What?" she said, confused.

"Lunch," Carlton repeated. "You're like my sister. You get irrational and bitchy when your blood sugar gets low."

"I am not irrational," she protested, and her partner smirked when he caught her deliberate omission.

But, she grabbed her own coat and followed him out to his car, sliding into the passenger seat while he started the engine. The drive was quiet except for the radio that Carlton had tuned to some news station, but after a few minutes he shut even that off, plunging the car into a stiff silence. He was drumming his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel as he drove, a deep line etched in his forehead between his eyes as he scowled at the road.

"Do you believe that feelings for someone can just change?" he asked, suddenly, breaking the silence. "I mean, you know how you should feel about someone, but everything you're feeling is completely the opposite?"

"I think emotions are complex," she said, slowly, treading lightly on completely new territory.

She didn't know what had prompted her usually taciturn partner to suddenly open up with his emotions, but she wasn't going to say anything to spook him into changing his mind.

"I don't think feelings can just change, overnight," she went on, carefully. "I think that certain events can change how we view people, and that affects how we feel about them."

Carlton considered her words as he drove, staring off into the distance, and then he shook his head in disgust.

"That," he declared, "makes no sense."

"Well, excuse me for not being a trained psychologist," she muttered under her breath.

Personally, she thought it made complete sense. Carlton just didn't want to accept anything that didn't fit into his perfect little worldview. Especially if it involved Shawn Spencer, like she was starting to suspect.

It made perfect sense, really. Shawn had saved Carlton's life out at the warehouse, and now Carlton was confused about the other man. The laid-back, no cares in the world, jokester had turned out to be deeper and more complex than either of them had suspected, and she had the feeling that Carlton was uncomfortable with the realizations that were forming.

Or, for all she knew, he was madly in love with Shawn. That thought made her snort with laughter, earning her a raised eyebrow from her partner as he took his eyes off the road long enough to glance over at her.

_'Carlton and Shawn,'_ she thought, still chuckling inwardly. _'Right. And next, pigs will fly.'_

She was startled out of her thoughts when the car started slowing down, and she looked at their destination with some surprise.

"Tom Blair's Pub?" she asked, skeptically, as Carlton threw the car into park. "We're having lunch, here?"

"The food isn't bad," Carlton said, defensively. "Are you coming, or not?"

She followed her partner into the pub, confused when the hostess smiled, widely, when she saw them, a genuine smile that was worlds away from the usual, plastic customer-service smile.

"Hey, Detective," she greeted them, and Juliet was shocked to realize that the woman was talking to Carlton. "Your usual table?"

"Thanks, Christine, that would be great," Carlton replied, and even more shocking was the sight of a smile on his face, especially since she'd privately thought that his face would crack if he tried to smile.

"Christine?" she echoed, after they'd been seated, and a waitress had taken their lunch orders. "Your usual table?"

"I come here for lunch from time to time," Carlton said, although she suspected that it was more than that from the way he'd ordered without even looking at the menu.

"Right," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "What's next, finding out that you have a standing date with Shawn, here?"

There was an ominous silence from the opposite side of the table, and she looked up in shock to see Carlton fiddling with his napkin, very pointedly not looking at her.

"Oh, my god," she breathed, and a faint blush colored his cheeks at her exclamation. "You're having lunch with Shawn Spencer?"

"Just for about a week," he muttered, defensively, clearly sensing that he was trapped in the conversation. "Guster's been at some pharmaceutical conference in Seattle, and Henry Spencer's out fishing in the middle of the Pacific, so I've been keeping an eye on Spencer while he's recuperating."

"And that includes lunch," Juliet repeated, stunned.

Carlton opened his mouth to answer, probably to refute her words, but then his mouth snapped shut and his gaze hardened as he stared over her shoulder in the direction of the door. Twisting around in her seat, she followed his gaze to see Shawn Spencer standing in the doorway. He was leaning heavily on a pair of crutches, his weight centered on his one, good leg. And he wasn't alone.

A pair of hulking men had Shawn backed up against the door frame, practically looming over the smaller man while he leaned backward in a futile effort to get away. He was clearly trapped by the men, unable to get away while he was hampered by his broken leg. One of the men leaned closer to him, saying something, and a faint look of panic flashed across Shawn's face.

"I'll be right back," Carlton said, brusquely.

Juliet watched him stalk across the dining area to Shawn's side, watched him brush his coat back to reveal his badge and gun clipped to his belt. And then, to her further amazement, she watched as Carlton draped a casual arm across Shawn's shoulders, leaning over and planting a quick kiss on the curve of the younger man's jaw line.

She could feel her own jaw dropping at the sight, her eyes practically bugging out as Carlton took a protective stance half in front of Shawn, saying something too low for her to hear. But, whatever he'd said, it made the men back off, shaking their heads as they left the pub.

She expected Carlton to back off as soon as the men were gone, but he remained where he was, arm across Shawn's shoulders. He said something that made a grin break out across the younger man's face, and then he steered Shawn across the crowded dining area. It was then that she saw that the arm he had across Shawn's shoulders was mostly for support, holding him up as he maneuvered with the awkward crutches.

"-almost miss the wheelchair," Shawn was saying, as he dropped gratefully into the chair that Carlton had pulled out for him. "Thanks, Lassie. I guess chivalry isn't dead, after all."

"What the hell was that?" Juliet broke in, interrupting whatever Carlton was about to say. "That kiss," she stammered, staring at the men in disbelief. "What the hell was with that kiss?"

"It's called acting, O'Hara," Carlton said, with an exasperated eye roll. "Spencer can't help but get himself into trouble; I was just getting him out of it."

"Hey," Shawn protested, "I could have handled things."

"Uh huh," Carlton said, skeptically, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "You were handling things just fine from what I could tell."

"You kissed him," Juliet pressed, and Carlton huffed out an impatient sigh.

"It was a ruse, O'Hara," he said, shortly. "Let it go."

Their food arrived, then, and it was accompanied by a sandwich and a Coke that the waitress placed in front of Shawn with a flirty smile.

"I saw you come in and figured that you'd be eating with Detective Lassiter," she said, when Shawn thanked her. "Enjoy."

"I'll be right back," Carlton said, suddenly, standing and heading across the room to the restrooms in the back corner of the pub.

That left her alone with Shawn, and suddenly she found herself just as tongue-tied as she'd been every other time she tried to talk to him. But, she was determined to say what needed to be said, and she wasn't going to let herself chicken out. Not again.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out, and Shawn looked at her in surprise, one eyebrow raised, inquisitively.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, swallowing a bite of his sandwich.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, stubbornly. "I screwed up, and you got hurt, and I'm sorry."

"Accepted," he said, with a shrug, and she stared at him in disbelief.

"That's it?" she asked, incredulously. "I've been agonizing over this for two weeks, and you just shrug it off like it didn't matter?"

"Well, I left my thumbscrews in my other cast," he told her, sarcastically. "Really, Juliet, it's okay. Carlton's safe, the bad guys are in jail, and everything turned out fine."

Juliet just shook her head, amazed at his easy acceptance. She knew that he couldn't hold a grudge, and now she was seeing it, firsthand.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked, a few seconds later, and he gestured for her to continue. "Why'd you stop flirting with me? I mean, one minute you were all lovey-dovey, and the next, everything just stopped."

"This thing between us," Shawn said, looking her square in the eye, "was it ever going to go anywhere?"

She blushed, thinking back to her behavior. She'd had no intention of ever returning Shawn's affections, but she'd never set him straight because she'd been so flattered at having his attention focused on her.

"No," she admitted, quietly. "I like you, Shawn, but I don't-"

She trailed off, even now unable to finish the sentence, but Shawn was nodding, knowingly.

"Exactly," he said. "I'd been fooling myself for a while, but eventually the signs were too much for even me to ignore, so I just cut things off."

"I'm sorry," she muttered, this time apologizing for having lead Shawn on for so long, but he just shrugged, again.

"I saw what I wanted to see," he told her. "At least, until I woke up and smelled the coffee, anyway."

"That kiss," Juliet asked a few seconds later, unable to let it go like Carlton had ordered. "Was that really just a ruse?"

Shawn had glanced out at the dining area at her question, and she watched his face soften with some indescribable emotion when Carlton emerged from the restrooms. Then, he turned back to her, his face smoothing out into its usual mask.

"I don't know," he finally admitted, with a quiet sigh. "I just don't know, anymore."


	3. Lassiter, three, and Spencer, zip

**"Lassiter, three, and Spencer, zip. I think it's time we evened that score." (other: to shut them up)**

"He kissed you?"

Gus's voice was hard to understand over the spotty connection between their cell phones, but Shawn could hear the incredulity in his best friend's voice, clearly.

"That's what I said," Shawn told him. "Hold on, Gus, let me put you down for a sec."

Shawn grasped his leg in both hands, wincing at the pull of the muscles in his leg as he maneuvered the cast-covered appendage onto a footstool in front of his couch, trying to ease the constant ache that even high grade pain medication couldn't alleviate.

When he'd been released from the wheelchair and graduated up to crutches, the doctor had downgraded his cast, as well. Now, it just came up to his knee, which still made movement awkward, but it wasn't as bad as when he'd first been released from the hospital.

"He kissed me," he went on, picking the phone back up as he relaxed back into the couch. "Twice."

"Like, on the mouth?" Gus asked, skeptically.

"No, not like that," Shawn told him. "That would be weird."

"Well, where, then?" Gus pressed, sounding impatient.

"Well, the first time was on my toes," Shawn said, and he could hear Gus stifling a laugh behind his fist.

"Right, because Lassiter kissing your feet isn't weird at all," he said, incredulously.

"It wasn't like that," Shawn protested, automatically. "He was just trying to make me feel better."

"By kissing your feet," Gus echoed.

"It was the only part of me not covered with bruises or this damn cast," Shawn told him, knocking lightly on the plaster for emphasis. "You should see me, Gus. Two weeks later, and I still look like I was run over by a truck."

"Ouch," Gus said, and Shawn could almost see him wincing in sympathy. "You're not healing, at all?"

Shawn could hear the worry in his voice, and he hastened to reassure him.

"Well, some of it is from a couple of days, ago," he told Gus. "We had an unexpected cold snap, and I wiped out on the ice in the hospital parking lot the first day on my crutches. Almost broke my neck."

"We don't get ice in Santa Barbara," Gus pointed out. "Especially not in late October."

"Well, we do right now," Shawn said. "Believe me, I was as surprised as you are."

"So, other than an inability to walk across a parking lot," Gus teased him, "you're okay?"

"I'm fine," Shawn insisted. "And you will not tell my dad about any of this when his fishing boat docks in Port Angeles," he added, suddenly, knowing that Gus was likely to do just that.

"You don't want your dad knowing that you got hurt?" Gus asked.

"I don't want him killing himself trying to get back here when there's nothing he can do," Shawn corrected him, sternly. "Just leave it alone, Gus, and don't tell him anything. Got it? Not one word."

"I got it," Gus said, and Shawn imagined him rolling his eyes. "So, what about the second time?"

"Huh?" Shawn asked.

"You said that Lassiter kissed you, twice," Gus reminded him. "What was the second time?"

"I went to Tom Blair's for lunch," Shawn told him, "and these guys got all bent out of shape when I accidentally stepped on one of them with my crutches. I tried to apologize, but they wouldn't have any of it, and that's when Carlton stepped in."

"Your knight in shining Kevlar," Gus said, a mocking tone in his voice.

"So, Carlton comes up with his badge and gun showing," Shawn said, ignoring Gus's comment, "and I thought he was just going to pull the tough-cop act and make them back off. But, he goes and puts his arm around my shoulders and kisses me on the cheek."

"He _what_?" Gus asked, openly laughing, now. "He kissed you on the cheek?"

"He said, 'Glad you could make it to lunch, honey,' and then he just smirked at the men," Shawn told him. "They took one look at the badge and gun and hightailed it out of there."

"What did you do?" Gus asked, still laughing.

"What could I do?" Shawn asked, rhetorically. "I didn't want to screw up Carlton's ruse, so I just played along."

"And now he's avoiding you like the plague, right?" Gus guessed. "'Cause he's embarrassed about kissing you."

"That's the weird part," Shawn said. "He isn't avoiding me. He's just acting like absolutely nothing happened, like everything is normal between us. Which is also weird," he added, thinking about it, "because Carlton and I don't do normal. Our relationship, such as it is, is as dysfunctional as it gets."

"And you're sure that Lassiter hasn't taken any hard blows to the head, recently?" Gus asked, skepticism clear in his voice.

"Considering the way he's avoiding the issue, I'm starting to wonder if I'm the one that got hit on the head," Shawn muttered.

"Well, you know what you have to do, don't you?" Gus asked.

"What?" Shawn asked. "Pretend it never happened? Act like Carlton never kissed me?"

"No," Gus said, drawing the word out as though Shawn was trying his patience. "If he's not going to talk to you, then you need to talk to him."

"Like that's going to work," Shawn shot back.

"Well, if he won't talk about it, you could always kiss him," Gus said, chuckling. "Maybe the third time really is the charm."

"I'm hanging up, now," Shawn said, rolling his eyes even though Gus couldn't see him.

"Hey, be careful on those sidewalks," Gus said, quickly. "You've got a hard head, but even you've got limits."

"Will do," Shawn reassured him. "Have fun in Seattle."

"It's seventy degrees and sunny," Gus told him, gloatingly. "Enjoy your snowfall."

Gus's laughter filled the air as Shawn hung up on him. Then, he snapped his cell phone shut and tossed it onto the cushion beside him, staring out of the window. As if Gus's words had been an omen, it had started snowing while they'd been talking, tiny, wet flakes that weren't even sticking to the sidewalk. But, it was snow, nonetheless.

"And, yet," he mused out loud, "getting kissed by Carlton Lassiter is still stranger than snow in October."

Maybe Gus was right. Maybe he should make Carlton talk to him. After all, the man couldn't keep ducking the issue, forever. Sooner or later, the subject was going to come up between them.

And really, it wasn't like it was a bad subject. Yeah, he'd been surprised by the kisses, both of them, but it hadn't been an unpleasant surprise. More of a shock, really, especially the second one, but he'd gotten over it fast enough. He'd actually relaxed at the feel of Carlton's arms over his shoulders, something that still surprised him.

He still wasn't sure what to make of Carlton's reaction to the whole thing. Why kiss him in the first place, when he could have just intimidated the men into leaving him alone? And what was up with calling him honey, anyway? For a second, he'd almost been fooled into buying the ruse that Carlton had been selling, and even now, he wondered if the other man had really just been acting.

"That's it," he said, decisively. "Tomorrow, I get some answers."

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"That'll be twenty-one fifty."

Shawn stared at the cab driver in disbelief before digging for his wallet and pulling the money out. Then, while the man sighed in irritation, he maneuvered his crutches out of the cab and made sure that his footing on the ground was secure before he got out. No way did he want to wipe out on the icy asphalt, again, especially so near a running vehicle.

Getting carefully out of the cab, he slowly made his way across the parking lot of the police station. By the time he reached the foot of the stairs, his arms were shaking, the muscles burning from the exertion of holding himself up. His left arm, especially, hurt like crazy, the barely-healed muscles of his dislocated shoulder protesting every movement.

For a moment, he regretted giving up the wheelchair so quickly for the crutches. But, his apartment wasn't exactly wheelchair friendly, and he'd broken more than he could afford trying to maneuver around his apartment. In the long run, he'd figured that it would be more financially secure to stick to the crutches.

But, at the moment, neither the crutches nor the wheelchair was of much use to him. Not when he was stuck at the bottom of the stairs with no idea how to get up to the door. He hadn't been back to the station since he'd been released from the hospital, and he hadn't thought about trying to get around while he was still hurt.

"Hey, Shawn," he heard from behind him, and he turned, carefully, to see McNabb standing at his shoulder.

"Hey, Buzz," he returned, and he watched shock play out over the other man's face.

"Wow," he said, his eyes going wide. "They were right; you do look like hell."

Then, he blushed, furiously, as he realized what he'd just blurted out.

"I mean," he stammered, "that is-"

"It's okay, Buzz," Shawn told him, cutting him off. "I've seen myself in the mirror."

"Need some help?" Buzz asked, clearly desperate to change the subject as he nodded at the stairs.

"Yeah," Shawn told him. "Unless you have a ramp somewhere around here?"

"Over there," Buzz answered, gesturing to the side of the building. "But, you'd better let me help you."

When he started across the parking lot, with Buzz hovering at his shoulder, he felt like someone's grandmother being helped across the street by a Boy Scout. But, when he nearly slipped twice on the way to the ramp, he was grateful for Buzz's strength and quick reflexes.

The trip up the ramp was nearly as treacherous, and he silently cursed the deity that had decided that freezing temperatures in Southern California was a good idea.

"So, are you here to ask the Chief about a case?" Buzz asked, holding the front door open for him as he awkwardly maneuvered himself inside.

"Actually, I came to talk to Lassiter," Shawn told him, and Buzz got another surprised look on his face.

"Willingly?" he asked, and Shawn laughed.

"See you later, Buzz," he said, and the other man walked over to his desk.

As Shawn made his own way across the squad room, he watched Carlton look up at the familiar clicking of his crutches on the floor, hearing his approach even over the noise of the station. A smile flashed across the other man's face when he spotted Shawn, but it was gone so quickly that he wondered if he hadn't imagined it.

"What do you want, Spencer?" Carlton asked, as Shawn stopped next to his desk.

Carlton's voice was as brusque as it usually was, but Shawn was pretty sure he was putting on an act. He didn't have that irritated air about him that had marked so many of their previous encounters. In fact, he almost seemed friendly. Shawn wasn't sure how he felt about this new Carlton Lassiter.

"We need to talk," he said.

"About?" Carlton asked.

"I think you know what we need to talk about," Shawn told him. "And I also think that this isn't a conversation you really want to have in front of the entire squad room."

"In that case," Carlton said, tapping a few keys on his keyboard to save his work, "let's go somewhere more private."

He pushed his chair away from his desk and stood, gesturing for Shawn to precede him across the squad room. As they walked, he kept pace with Shawn, even though he was moving slowly because of the crutches and the slow speed had to be driving Carlton crazy.

They ducked into an empty conference room and Carlton closed the blinds to discourage any nosy cops. Then, he turned to face Shawn, who was leaning against the wall to take the pressure off his bad leg.

"Well?" he prompted, raising an eyebrow at Shawn. "You wanted to talk?"

"You kissed me," Shawn said, bluntly.

"Yes," Carlton replied.

"Twice," Shawn continued, insistently.

"Yes," Carlton repeated, and his calm demeanor had Shawn huffing out an irritated sigh.

"_Why_ did you kiss me?" he demanded, hotly, and Carlton shrugged.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time?" came the answer, and Shawn stared at him in disbelief.

"Have you taken any blows to the head, recently?" he asked, incredulously.

He'd scoffed at the idea when Gus had brought it up, but given Carlton's current behavior, it was fast becoming his favorite theory.

"I'm in perfect health," Carlton assured him. "And, really, Spencer, why are you getting so worked up? It was just a kiss."

"It was two kisses," Shawn snapped, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. "And it wasn't just a kiss, it was that you kissed me! And you and I, we don't have a kissing relationship, we have a knock each other upside the head relationship, and now you've changed the dynamic, and – umph!"

The breath was knocked out of him in a rush as Carlton grabbed him by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward, sealing his lips over his. The rational part of his brain, that tiny percentage still capable of actual thought, took note of the fact that Carlton had been very careful in pulling him forward, supporting Shawn's body against his own so that his weight wasn't on his broken leg.

The rest of his brain was a gibbering mess, a high pitched shriek of _'He's kissing me, he's kissing me!' _running on an endless loop through his mind.

His usually-hyperactive senses were in overdrive as he clung to Carlton, the feel of the other man's lips on his, the rough hand that Carlton had cupped around his cheek, the smell of his shampoo and the residue of gunpowder lingering on his skin, all of it was burning into him, making a permanent impression. This was one moment he was never going to forget.

He'd just started to relax into the kiss, forcing aside his initial shock, when Carlton pulled away, drawing a small whimper of protest from his lips that he quickly silenced. Then, while he was still stunned, Carlton pushed him backward, gently, until he was being supported by the wall, smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt before he stepped back.

Shawn gaped at him in wordless shock, pretty sure he was doing a fair imitation of a fish, while Carlton smirked at him.

"What the hell?" he demanded, when he finally found his voice, again.

"You're kind of cute when you babble," Carlton told him, and then he was sweeping by Shawn and out the door.

"Cute?" Shawn echoed, incredulously. "Lassie, get back here! You can't leave it like that!"

But, the other man had already disappeared down the hall, leaving him standing alone in the conference room. Shawn stared at him in disbelief for several seconds before he shook himself back to full awareness.

"He did it, again," he said, out loud to the empty room. "I can't believe he did that, again."

A passing cop shot him a suspicious look when she heard him talking to himself, but Shawn didn't pay any attention to her.

"That's Lassiter, three, and Spencer, zip," he mused, out loud. Then, a slow grin spread over his face as he realized the implications of what he'd just said. "I guess I'd better do something to even up that score."


	4. You, me, dinner Like a date

**"You, me, dinner. Like a date. What do you say?" (other: while talking)**

While he hadn't been avoiding Spencer, before, he certainly couldn't make that claim, now. He was actually getting quite good at ducking the younger man, able to sneak away just seconds before he would have been found – and confronted about that stupid kiss he'd laid on Spencer.

But, he considered, he ought to be getting good at avoiding the other man, considering that he'd been at it for nearly three weeks, now. Nineteen days – and, yes, he was keeping track – of not having to explain what he'd been thinking when he'd kissed Spencer. Which was good, because he couldn't even explain it to himself.

He'd gone over that moment probably a hundred times since he'd walked out of the conference room, and he couldn't think of a single reason why he'd kissed Spencer. It wasn't like he'd been forced into it, after all. He could have explained – lied, a traitorous little voice in the back of his head chimed in – that he'd just been joking both previous times. And that would have been the end of it, and he and Spencer would never have talked about it, ever again.

Instead, he'd gone and made things a million times more complicated, and then, on top of it, he'd called Spencer cute. The word cute wasn't even in his vocabulary, but it had slipped out as easily as if he used it every day.

_'Maybe getting hit on the head by Mulvaney affected me more than I thought,' _he thought, suddenly, cheered by the idea that there might be an explanation for his strange behavior. _'Or, maybe it's a brain tumor. Or an aneurysm, or something-'_

"Detective Lassiter, are you with us?"

Chief Vick's voice, loud and extremely annoyed, cut through his thoughts, and he jerked to attention, fighting the urge to squirm with discomfort when he realized that everyone in the room was staring at him.

"Sorry, Chief," he apologized, wondering what he'd missed before she'd tried to get his attention.

"As I was saying," Vick said, the words gritted out through tightly clenched teeth, "it's been over two weeks, and we still don't have any leads in the boardwalk murders. This maniac is on his third victim, and we're just sitting on our asses."

Around him, the other cops in the room were all but squirming in their own seats, looking everywhere but up at Vick, who still had a scowl fixed firmly on her face. Carlton, for his part, managed to keep his composure, but it was a close thing.

The boardwalk murders, as the papers had been calling them, were a trio of mutilated bodies that had been found down at the boardwalk. There had been nothing accompanying the bodies, no notes taunting the police, no incriminating fingerprints, and no tokens left with or taken from the bodies, at least none that they'd been able to find.

And there was nothing connecting the victims to each other. Two men and one woman, all different ages, no occupations, hobbies, or people in common, and there'd been no indication that they'd known each other. He hated to even think the word, but the murders were practically unsolvable, confounding every cop in the precinct since the first body had been found.

"This is unacceptable, people," Vick went on, her voice practically coming out in a growl. "We have a duty to the people of Santa Barbara, and we're failing. We need to catch this lunatic, now."

She didn't mention the political angle involved, which made Carlton's respect for her rise even more, even though he knew she was under pressure to close the cases. He'd heard too many conversations, lately, that involved Vick apologizing to some trumped-up city official about something that she couldn't prevent. And he'd inferred enough to guess that her job was on the line, which explained the dark circles under her eyes.

"We should bring Spencer in on this," he said, and the words surprised the hell out of him the second they left his mouth.

And he wasn't the only one, if the looks that he was getting from around the conference room were any indication. His usual disdain for Spencer was no secret, and he knew his fellow cops were wondering exactly what he was thinking. Only O'Hara looked unsurprised by his declaration; from the satisfied smile on her face, she looked like she had finally figured out the missing piece to some puzzle.

Even Chief Vick looked shocked by his words.

"You want us to bring in Shawn Spencer?" she asked, incredulously, and he didn't miss the unspoken, _'Who are you and what have you done with Carlton Lassiter?'_

"We're obviously not having any luck catching this murderer, ourselves," he pointed out. "Maybe it's time we thought about employing some more … unconventional means."

Whatever his feelings for the man, he wasn't about to dignify Spencer's spastic flailing by calling him a psychic.

Vick stared at him for a long moment, and then she nodded, decisively.

"Call Spencer," she told him. "And then brief him on everything we've got so far when he gets here."

Carlton nodded, leaving the conference room and pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. Dialing Spencer's number, he listened to the phone ring a couple of times before Spencer picked up with a slightly less perky than usual greeting.

"You need to get down to the station," Carlton told him, brusquely. "We've got a case we could use your perspective on."

"Wow," Spencer deadpanned, "Carlton Lassiter is asking for my help. Mark this day on the calendar."

"Just get down here," Carlton snapped, hanging up his phone before Spencer could say anything else.

Nearly twenty minutes later, the younger man finally walked through the doors of the station, moving quickly towards Carlton's desk.

"Took you long enough," Carlton muttered, without looking up from the photos of the crime scenes that he was examining.

"I had to take a taxi," Spencer told him, "seeing as how I'm still stuck with this."

He'd been leaning on a cane, and now he thumped it on the floor for emphasis. Hearing him, Carlton looked up and saw the black boot that had replaced the plaster cast in incasing his foot and leg. While lighter than the previous cast, the boot was still bulky, and would have prevented him from riding his bike, yet.

"Conference room," Carlton said, rather than replying, as he tipped his head toward the room in question. "I'm supposed to get you caught up on the case."

He let Spencer precede him across the squad room, matching him nearly step for step. The younger man was still moving slowly, his usual frenetic energy hampered by the cast and cane. But, the bruising that marked his skin was almost completely gone, and if he knew Spencer, the other burdens wouldn't be far behind.

"No Guster, today?" he asked, as they walked over to the conference room.

"Gus had to work," Spencer said. "I'm flying solo."

He raised an eyebrow when Carlton reached in front of him to open the door to the conference room, but slipped inside without a word. Carlton shut the door of the conference room and then turned to see Spencer watching him, an odd expression on his face.

"What?" Carlton grumbled, as he walked over to the board where the crime scene photos had been tacked up.

"I'm just trying to figure out what to do with the new and improved Carlton Lassiter," Spencer told him.

"New and improved?" he asked, dryly.

"Well, you held the door open for me, for one," Spencer replied. "Not to mention certain other things that have happened, lately."

"Right," Carlton muttered, "those other things. I don't really want to talk about that."

"So I figured," Spencer said, "what with the way you've been avoiding me like I've got the bubonic plague."

"I don't think I've been that bad," Carlton argued.

"You ducked into the woman's restroom last week when I walked into the station," Spencer reminded him. "Sergeant Corbett chucked a soap dispenser at you."

"What's really impressive is that she ripped it off the wall, first," Carlton muttered, and Spencer snorted out a laugh.

"Remind me never to mess with that woman," he replied. "So, what's up with the case?"

"Three bodies," Carlton began, gesturing to the board as Spencer walked over to join him. "All dumped down at the boardwalk after they were killed."

"Yeah, I remember reading about these in the paper," Spencer said, quietly.

He reached toward one of the photos, trailing his fingertips lightly over the glossy surface. There was a thoughtful look on his face as he turned to face Carlton.

"How were they killed?" he asked, and Carlton shook his head.

"The medical examiner couldn't determine the cause of death," he replied. "The bodies were too mutilated."

He watched Spencer contemplate the board, a frown on his face as he stared intently at the pictures. He was almost completely still, and Carlton wondered if the other man was even aware that he'd dropped his usual façade.

"Any connection between the victims?" Spencer asked, without turning his attention away from the board.

"None," Carlton said, letting his frustration show through, as he spoke. "The first was a single mother of two who worked at a bakery, the second was a retired attorney with six grandkids, and the last was a college student who had a part time job and still lived with her parents."

"There was no connection between them, at all?" Spencer pressed, insistently. "They had nothing in common?"

"You don't think we already looked at all of that?" Carlton snapped, glaring at the younger man. "What do you think we do all day, here, Spencer? Do you think we just sit around all day waiting for you to show up and have one of your psychic visions about our cases?"

He was practically yelling by the end, but he cut himself off, teeth clicking together, sharply, when he realized that people outside the conference room were staring at them in amazement. Spencer, meanwhile, had his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for Carlton to finish ranting.

"Are you done?" he asked, when Carlton finally fell silent. "Can we get back to working, or are you going to yell at me, some more?"

"Sorry," Carlton apologized, brusquely. "This case has just been getting under my skin, lately."

"Just the case?" Spencer asked, quietly, but Carlton ignored the unspoken invitation to talk about recent events.

"The thing that's really been getting to me," Carlton went on, pacing the length of the room in frustration as he talked, "is that I know these people."

"You knew the victims?" Spencer asked, but Carlton shook his head.

"Not personally," he explained, dragging a hand through his hair and making it stand on end. "But, I recognize their faces."

"From where?" Spencer asked, and even though it was the logical thing to ask, the question just pissed him off.

"I don't know!" he exploded, his voice coming out in a short bark before he cut himself off. "Aren't you supposed to be having one of your damn visions, right about now?"

"All of a sudden, now, you think I'm psychic?" Spencer asked, wryly, earning a glare from Carlton. "Aren't you the one who's always calling me a fake?"

"This isn't helping me on the case," Carlton growled, ignoring the implied admission he could hear in the other man's words.

"Then, let's try something else," Spencer told him. "Close your eyes."

"Excuse me?" Carlton asked, in disbelief.

"Close your eyes," Spencer repeated, patiently. "It's so that you can shut out all the distractions and just concentrate."

Carlton huffed out an irritated sigh, but after a moment, he closed his eyes, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that came from making himself so vulnerable.

"Now just focus on the first victim," Spencer told him, his voice low and soothing, coming from somewhere behind him. "Margie Bastion," he went on, and Carlton could hear him flipping through the case files. "Just see her face in your mind."

"I see her," he said, after a moment.

"Now, just let everything else come into focus," Spencer continued, his voice still quiet. "Just let yourself see her surroundings."

Carlton sighed as he concentrated on Spencer's voice, trying to remember where he'd last seen the first victim.

"She's sitting in a courtroom," he said, at last.

"Where?" Spencer prompted. "Where do you see her sitting? In the crowd? The witness stand?"

"In the jury box." His eyes snapped open and he whirled around to face Spencer. "She was on the jury."

"Now we just need to figure out which trial it was," Spencer said, but Carlton was already out the door and halfway to his desk.

By the time Spencer reached him, he was typing furiously at his computer, practically glaring holes in the screen.

"They were all there," he said, without looking up. "I remember where I saw those faces," he said, triumphantly. "They were all on the same jury."

Spencer settled his hip on the edge of his desk, but rather than push him off, Carlton just moved a stack of papers over to give him more room. Then, what he'd just done hit him, and he wondered if he had time to stop by the hospital and get an MRI. Personality-altering tumors were becoming more and more likely as the day went on.

"Doesn't the courthouse keep a record of jury panels for all the trials?" Spencer asked, looking around at the computer screen. "So that they can keep track of who's served and who's due for jury duty?"

"Exactly," Carlton told him. Then, a few seconds later, "Got it." Ruefully, he added, "I just wish I'd figured this out two victims ago."

"You found the list of jurors?" Spencer asked, clearly not willing to let him wallow in even a second of self pity.

"They served together two years ago," Carlton said, skimming through the information on the screen. "The Kyle Mason murder trial."

A flash of recognition crossed Spencer's face, and then he flinched.

"You're not going to like what I'm about to tell you," he hedged, carefully.

Carlton sighed; he didn't even need to look at the last name on the list to know what it was going to say.

"And here I thought you would have done anything possible to get excused from jury duty," he said, instead.

"I was an alternate," Spencer told him. "I got called up on the last day when one of the original jurors was run down in broad daylight and was sent to the hospital with a broken spine."

"I remember that," Carlton replied. "We figured that it was Mason's attempt to get his trial postponed because of an incomplete jury."

"So, where's Mason, now?" Spencer asked. "Please say he's still in prison."

"He was released last month," Carlton told him. "Twenty-one months into his ten-year sentence, and he walked because of a technicality."

"He skates by on someone's stupidity, and now he's killing all the jurors who put him away?" Spencer asked, incredulously. "Is he crazy?"

"Hopefully, he's crazy enough to make a mistake," Carlton replied. Raising his voice, he called out to the rest of the squad room, "We've got a lead on the boardwalk murders!"

A ragged cheer went up around the squad room, and what seemed like half of the cops in the station converged on them, all talking at once. Carlton handled their rapid-fire questions, easily, and in just over twenty minutes, there was a plan in place and everyone was getting ready to go.

Carlton unlocked the top drawer of his desk and pulled his gun out, sliding the weapon into the holster on his shoulder after he checked it. He turned back around in time to see Spencer standing up from his perch on the desk, using his cane for support.

"No way in Hell," he said, flatly, and Spencer's eyes widened in shock. "One," he continued, before the younger man could say anything, "you're injured and likely to be a liability to the bust. Two, did you not just admit to being on Mason's hit list?"

"I did," Spencer said, reluctantly.

"Then, you're staying here," Carlton told him. "Mason has already gotten three members of his convicting jury. I'm not handing him the fourth on a silver platter."

Spencer looked like he wanted to argue, but he seemed to bite back the words with an effort.

"Don't get shot," he said, instead.

Carlton nodded, turning to follow the rest of the task force out of the station, but then something stopped him before he went out the door. He couldn't put a name to the impulse that had him turning around and crossing the distance between him and Spencer in a few, short strides.

"Don't tell me you forgot your Kevlar vest," Spencer told him, looking up as he stopped in front of him. "Because, if you go out there and get yourself hurt because you didn't have the common sense-"

Wordlessly, Carlton grabbed the younger man by the shoulders and pulled him closer. He closed his lips over Spencer's cutting off the other man's startled squeak of surprise. Then, to his surprise, Spencer kissed him back, giving just as good as he got. His hand snaked up to curl around the back of Carlton's neck, holding him in place.

Finally, and with more reluctance than he ever could have imagined, Carlton pulled away. Spencer had the same shocked look on his face that he'd had the last time they kissed – and Carlton could feel his brain shorting out at the reminder that there had been multiple kisses with Shawn Spencer, of all people.

"Thanks," he said, gruffly, trying to get his brain working again. "For your help on the case, thanks."

He was babbling, and he knew it. Turning, he started toward the door before he could do something eminently stupid – like grab Spencer and kiss him, again.

"Go to dinner with me," Spencer called out, stopping him in his tracks. "You, me, dinner. Like a date," he continued, and he sounded just as shaken as Carlton. "What do you say?"

Had to be a brain tumor. That was the only explanation for what popped out of his mouth, apparently bypassing the logical part of his brain.

"Yes, okay, dinner." And then he walked out of the station without looking back.


	5. I think we have a lot to talk about

**"I think we have a lot to talk about." (type: letter – xoxo)**

The station was quiet after the task force had left to go after Mason, and Shawn found himself alone in a practically empty squad room. The only other people nearby were Sergent Corbett, who was manning the phones, and Buzz, who was sitting at his desk, busy with files of cold cases.

Shawn walked over to join the other man, dropping into a chair beside Buzz's desk. The younger man looked up briefly as he sat down, giving him a small smile.

"Need some help?" Shawn offered, leaning over to see what Buzz was working on. "Maybe I can get some psychic vibrations about your cases."

"They're just old cases," Buzz told him. "Robberies, theft, home invasions, that sort of thing."

"Well, it's either help you with this," Shawn replied, "or go stir crazy waiting for the task force to come back with Mason."

"Fair enough," Buzz said, sliding the top file over so that Shawn could see it. "I'll clear it with the Chief, later, so that you're not doing this pro bono."

"Thanks," Shawn said.

They worked on the cases, silently, with Shawn offering comments to Buzz only sporadically. When the younger man questioned the lack of his usual enthusiasm over the cases, Shawn muttered something about how the spirits were silent after being classified as cold cases for so long.

But, the truth was, he was worried. Mason was dangerous, he was unpredictable, and he was deadly. And Shawn, with his overactive imagination, couldn't help but imagine the all of the worst case scenarios that could possibly happen.

Not to mention his feelings for one Carlton Lassiter, which were impossibly complicated and inexplicably tied up with every other thought that crossed his mind, lately. Ever since that third kiss, Carlton had been pretty much all he'd been able to think about. He could see the man in his mind every time he closed his eyes, Carlton haunting his dreams every time he tried to sleep. And, after that frankly amazing kiss right before Carlton left, Shawn was pretty sure that the other man would start to haunt his waking moments, as well.

He grabbed another case file off Buzz's desk, trying to distract himself before his mind could start wandering down paths that were better left unexplored. But, the words just kept swimming in front of his eyes, and he couldn't concentrate on a single thing for more than a few seconds.

"So," Buzz asked, suddenly, breaking into his thoughts. "What's going on between you and Detective Lassiter?"

"What?" Shawn asked, startled. "No – nothing's going on. Why do you think something's going on between me and Lassiter?"

"Well, I just figured," Buzz said, carefully, without looking at him, "what with that kiss and all."

"You saw that?" Shawn asked, wondering how he could possibly spin this.

He wasn't particularly bothered by what people thought of him, but he was fairly certain that Carlton wouldn't take too kindly to people talking about him behind his back.

"I saw," Buzz confirmed, after a moment. "But, no one else did." As Shawn breathed a sigh of relief, Buzz added, "And you don't need to worry. I'm not going to tell anyone."

"Thanks," Shawn replied, and Buzz nodded.

"Besides," he muttered a few seconds later, "I think you two would be really good for each other."

He blushed bright crimson as Shawn looked at him.

"Good for each other?" Shawn echoed, feeling a smile creep over his face at the way Buzz went even more red and buried his face in his hands.

"Please don't tell Detective Lassiter I said that," he mumbled through his hands. "He'll shoot me."

Shawn just chuckled as he shook his head, grabbing the last file off of Buzz's desk and opening it to the first page. Fifteen minutes later, he flipped the folder shut and dropped it on the stack with the others.

"It was the mail carrier," he said, leaning back in his chair. "All of the break-ins correlate with common pick-up and drop-off times," he said, before Buzz could say anything.

"Nice piece of detective work," Buzz commented.

The phone rang before he could say anything else, and since Corbett had stepped out for a smoke, break, Buzz grabbed his own phone to answer it. Absently listening to him talk on the phone, Shawn wandered back to Carlton's desk and sat down. Picking up a pen, he spun it idly on the desk. There was a blank piece of paper sitting on top of some files, and acting on an impulse, Shawn pulled the paper until it sat in front of him. Then, before he could think about it, he started to write.

_Dear Lassie, _

_How does dinner, tonight, sound? Eight o'clock, meet me at my place, the restaurant's a surprise. I think we have a lot to talk about. _

_XOXO,_

_Shawn_

Okay, so it wasn't Shakespeare. But, it was more than he'd ever thought he'd write to Carlton, before. Now, he just had to hope that the other man didn't just throw the note away as soon as he saw it, ignoring everything that had happened to them, before.

"You're not going to believe this," Buzz said, suddenly, hanging up the phone. "They missed Mason."

"He got away?" Shawn asked, worriedly.

"He was never there," Buzz answered. "They think he may have gotten a tip to go into hiding."

"Great," Shawn muttered. "So, is the task force headed back here?"

"On their way," Buzz told him. "Oh, and Detective Lassiter said that you're to stay put. Under no circumstances are you to leave the station."

"Well, than I guess Detective Lassiter is going to be in for a disappointment," a new voice spoke up, and Shawn's head snapped up at the familiar tone.

Kyle Mason stood in the middle of the squad room, his gun trained squarely on Shawn's forehead.

"Go sit down, Officer," he said, absently, his eyes never leaving Shawn's face. "I don't have any business with you, and I don't really have to time to kill you, right now."

"Do what he says, Buzz," Shawn said, quietly, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. "We're both just going to do exactly what Mr. Mason wants, right?"

"That's right," Mason said, before Buzz could say anything. "You're both going to do everything that I say. And for you, Mr. Spencer, that means that you'll be coming with me."

"Now, see, I don't think that's such a good idea," Shawn hedged, sneaking a look past Mason in the hopes of seeing Carlton and the rest of the task force bursting through the door, guns blazing. "I really think that we should stay right here."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Mason snarled, and Shawn wisely kept his answer to himself. "Move it, Spencer," the man continued, and Shawn nodded.

"Okay," he replied, agreeably. "I'll be right there."

He grabbed his cane from where it was leaning against Carlton's desk and started forward, freezing when Mason waved the gun at him.

"Leave the cane," he snapped. "You're not taking a weapon along."

"Okay," Shawn repeated, slowly bending down and placing the cane on the floor. "Absolutely. Whatever you want."

He moved toward Mason, wincing when he passed the other man and felt the cold steel of the gun digging into the small of his back. He continued toward the door at Mason's prodding, and as they passed Buzz, frozen in his chair, he tried to tell the younger man, wordlessly, not to do anything.

Then, he heard a thud, and he whirled around to see Buzz crumpling to the floor, an ugly bruise blossoming on his temple. Mason had the gun still in his hand, and it was obvious that he'd used it to strike Buzz.

"You didn't have to do that," he snapped, angrily, freezing when Mason menaced him with the gun, again.

"Get moving," Mason snapped at him. "I want to be out of here long before the cops get back."

Shawn went out into the parking lot, to where Mason had a nondescript car parked in front of the station. He saw Corbett lying in a heap on the sidewalk, and he prayed that she was just unconscious, rather than dead. Seeing the direction of his gaze, Mason gave a short laugh.

"Oh, don't worry," Mason said. "The only person I plan on killing, today, is you."

"How comforting," Shawn muttered.

They reached the car, and Shawn was puzzled when Mason urged him around to the driver's side.

"In case you haven't noticed," he pointed out, "I'm not really in any position to drive, right now."

"Just get in," Mason barked, and Shawn pulled the door open and sat down. "Take that off," he continued, gesturing to the boot that covered his foot and ankle.

Shawn carefully unlatched the boot and slid it off. Mason grabbed it from him as soon as it was clear of his foot and threw it away, where it landed in the middle of the parking lot. Still keeping the gun trained on him, Mason got in the other side of the car and handed him the keys.

"Now, drive," he ordered, harshly.

_'And to think,'_ Shawn thought, as he started the car, _'that my biggest worry, earlier, was that Carlton would flake out on dinner.'_


	6. You could always come over to my place

**Author's Note: **For everyone who wondered where the kiss was in the last chapter, the prompt was **letter: xoxo**, which was in the note Shawn left for Carlton.

**"You could always come over to my place." (body: hands)**

The first thing he noticed as he pulled into the parking lot of the station was a black lump sitting in the middle of the parking lot. He steered carefully around it, so that he wouldn't hit it, and that was when he realized what it was.

Spencer's cast boot, thrown away like a piece of garbage.

In the passenger seat beside him, he could hear O'Hara's breath catch as she recognized the boot. Stopping in the first parking space he came to, he threw the car into park and got out, picking the boot up before he headed for station house.

Corbett was crumpled at the foot of the stairs, and O'Hara headed for the other woman, immediately. Carlton paused at the foot of the stairs while O'Hara checked on Corbett, and he was close enough to hear her quiet sigh of relief.

"She's breathing," his partner said, pulling her cell phone out and dialing for an ambulance.

Going inside the station, he was greeted by the sight of McNabb struggling to sit up, groaning in pain. Carlton went over to the other man, pulling him carefully to his feet and depositing him in a nearby chair when he started swaying.

Blood was crusted on McNabb's forehead, oozing slowly from a gash on his temple. His eyes were unfocused as he stared around the station, but there was a flicker of recognition when he saw Carlton.

"Detective," he said, his voice slurred. "He took Shawn. Had a gun."

"Who?" Carlton asked, shoving down the fear that threatened to rise up at the younger man's words. "Who took him, McNabb? Was it Mason?"

McNabb nodded, the movement threatening to topple him out of the chair until Carlton steadied him. Grabbing a box of tissues from the desk, he pressed a wad to the gash in McNabb's forehead, ignoring the other man's pained grimace.

"It's going to hurt even worse if you don't hold pressure on that," he reminded McNabb, who nodded.

He placed his hand over the tissues, holding them in place, but Carlton wasn't sure if he really understood what he had been told to do. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned to see an emergency tech entering the station, and he waved the man over, impatiently.

"He's got a head injury," he said, brusquely. "Needs to get to the hospital."

"We've already got the other officer loaded in the wagon," the EMT told him. "Are they the only ones?"

"Looks like it," Carlton answered.

Moving away to give the EMT room to work on McNabb, Carlton looked around and saw Spencer's cane lying on the floor near his desk. He picked the cane up and moved behind his desk, freezing at the sight of a single piece of paper in the middle of the desk. For a second, he thought it was from Mason, but then he recognized Spencer's distinctive scrawl.

The note, reminding him about their tentative dinner plans, and ending with a written kiss, had guilt gnawing at him. Spencer had been snatched from the one place where he should have been completely safe. He'd all but sworn to keep Spencer out of Mason's clutches, and then he'd been out on a wild goose chase while the murderer waltzed into the station and grabbed him.

Carlton started for the door, but not before he snagged Spencer's note off of his desk and folded it up, sticking it in his pocket. Going outside, he found O'Hara briefing the rest of the task force, but she trailed off when she saw him.

"Was it Mason?" Detective Andrews called out from the middle of the group.

"It was Mason," Carlton confirmed, to the grumblings of the cops that surrounded him. "He assaulted Corbett and McNabb, and he abducted Spencer at gunpoint."

The noise from the group got louder, at that, and Carlton was reminded of just how many friends on the force Spencer had made while working with the police. And he was never more grateful of that fact than he was, now. Mason hadn't just gone after some random juror; he'd taken one of their own. And he was going to pay for it.

"I want a list of all of Mason's known haunts," he said, raising his voice so that everyone could hear him. "Any place, no matter how tiny, that he might go to ground."

The cops around him leapt into action, heading inside the station. O'Hara followed the group, slower, stopping beside Carlton when she reached him. He could see a thousand questions in her eyes, but she finally settled on placing a comforting hand on his arm.

"We're going to get him back," she said, quietly, but he could hear the worry behind the forced bravado in her voice.

He nodded, patting her hand in his own, small form of comfort. Then, he followed the rest of the task force into the station. The station was buzzing with activity as cops worked to track down Mason, voices flying across the room as they shouted at each other.

Carlton let the noise wash over him for a moment before he headed back to his desk. As he sat down, the note in his pocket crinkled, and his resolve to find Spencer intensified. But, before he could start his own search, there was one thing that he absolutely needed to do.

Dialing his phone, he listened to it ring before Henry Spencer picked up. Summarizing the events in a few, short sentences, he listened to the elder Spencer breathe on the other end of the line, and he waited for the inevitable explosion. But, when Spencer spoke, his voice was tightly leashed, like he was fighting for control.

"I'll be there in fifteen," he snapped, and then Carlton heard a dial tone as the phone was slammed back into the cradle.

Spencer was there within the promised fifteen minutes, stalking his way over to Carlton's desk without a word. Carlton kept one eye on the older man's approach, watching with some degree of amusement as cops scurried out of Spencer's way or risk getting run over.

"What do you have?" the older man barked, stopping beside Carlton's desk.

"So far, nothing," Carlton told him, ignoring the glare Spencer was shooting him. "We're tracking down his known haunts, trying to figure out where he would have taken Shawn."

It hit him as soon as the words had left his mouth that he'd called the younger man by his first name, something that he'd been avoiding ever since that first kiss. But now, the name slipped out as easily as if he'd used it every day. He wondered idly if that was indicative of anything, or if it was just the stress talking.

Suddenly, there was a triumphant shout went up three desks over, and Carlton was jolted out of his thoughts.

"You got something?" he demanded, going over to the other cop, with Spencer not far behind.

"Mason's ex wife," Holden told him, her eyes never leaving the screen. "Her family owns a shipping company with warehouses down by the docks." Looking up at him, she added, "It's just a couple miles away from where the first three bodies were dumped."

"You're with me," Carlton ordered her. "And, you, Andrews," he continued, to the other cop's immediate agreement. "The rest of you keep looking," he called out, catching everyone's attention. "I want more possibilities if this one doesn't pan out."

He headed for the door, stopping short when Chief Vick stepped out of her office, her arms across her chest. He'd taken control of things without even thinking about it, and he wondered if he was about to be reprimanded for it. But, she didn't look angry with him, like he was expecting.

"I just got off the phone with the police commissioner," she said, quietly. "He sympathized with me over the situation, but talked about acceptable losses if it meant bringing Mason in."

Carlton started to speak, but she cut him off with an upraised hand.

"I told the commissioner to stuff it," she went on. "Bring our boy home, Detective."

"I will," Carlton promised.

Vick just nodded in reply, disappearing back into her office as her phone started to shrill, again. Carlton headed out to his car, slamming the door behind him as he started the engine. O'Hara, in the passenger seat, had a fiercely determined look on her face as she stared out of the window. And Spencer, in the back, was ominously silent, but there was a drawn look on his face that showed just how worried he was.

The drive to the warehouse was completely silent, the tension inside the car so thick it could have been cut with a knife. Everyone was occupied with their own thoughts, and Carlton was more than happy to not have anyone trying to engage him in conversation. He had enough on his mind just trying not to think of what could be happening to Shawn every second that he wasn't there.

When they finally arrived at the warehouses, it felt like an eternity had passed. And it took another before they found the right one, slipping silently in through the doors that Mason had left cracked open. There were stacks of pallets piled up near the entrance, providing them with handy cover, and Carlton was grateful for criminals that let the little details slip through the cracks.

He and O'Hara both had their weapons out, and when he turned to offer Spencer his backup piece, he was completely unsurprised to see that the man was already armed. He wondered if he was going to have to stop Spencer from killing Mason, and a small part of him wanted to just let the older man go.

But, he squashed that thought as quickly as it had popped up. Much as he might want to, he wasn't going to go against the book on this one. He didn't want there to be any reason for Mason to slip through the cracks a second time.

They found Mason and Shawn in the middle of the warehouse, Shawn sitting in a chair with his arms tied tightly behind him. There was a dark bruise on his temple, likely from being hit with the gun, and probably countless other bruises that they couldn't see. Mason was circling the younger man, brandishing the gun as he ranted about something that Carlton couldn't hear.

"Why is Shawn still alive?" O'Hara whispered, from beside him, earning her furious looks from both him and Spencer. "I mean," she elaborated, "he never kept his victims alive for any time, before. So, why start now?"

"Because if I know my son," Spencer replied, his voice barely audible, "he's managed to annoy Mason enough to keep from getting shot."

"For once," Carlton muttered, "his overactive mouth is working in our favor."

Peering carefully around the edge of the pallets they were hiding behind, Carlton drew a bead on Mason, waiting for an opening. When Mason finally moved out from behind Shawn, leaving himself open, Carlton took the shot. Mason collapsed in a heap, clutching his bleeding leg in agony, but he managed to keep a hold of his gun as he went down.

He squeezed off a shot that had all three of them diving for cover, and Carlton swore when he lost sight of Shawn. But, an answering shot rang out a second later, and Mason howled again in pain. Getting back on his feet, Carlton moved cautiously out into the open, keeping his gun trained on Mason who was lying on the floor, writhing in pain. He couldn't see either O'Hara or Spencer, and he wondered which one of them had shot Mason.

"You okay?" he asked Shawn, never taking his eyes off Mason.

"I'll live," came the quiet reply.

Behind him, Carlton heard footsteps, and then O'Hara came up beside him, her handcuffs already out. She secured Mason and dragged him to his feet, ignoring his pained protests as he was forced to stand on his bad leg.

"Suck it up," she snapped at him, as she and Spencer forced him to walk toward the door. "I'll call you an ambulance once we're outside."

That left Carlton to get Shawn untied, which he found that he didn't mind at all. Moving behind the chair, he tried to untie the knots of the ropes binding the younger man to the chair. But, the ropes were so tight that they were digging into Shawn's skin, and he had to give up on that, quickly. Luckily, there were pieces of broken glass lying under a window and he used one of the shards to saw through the ropes.

"Thanks," Shawn said, wincing as he rubbed feeling back into his bruised wrists. "It was starting to feel like my arms were going to fall off."

"No problem," Carlton replied, taking one of Shawn's hands between his own as he crouched down in front of the chair.

He rubbed the skin, gently, trying to restore circulation without causing the younger man any more pain. Shawn was looking at him with an odd expression on his face, but he just shook his head when Carlton looked at him, quizzically.

"I'd thank you for rescuing me," he said, wryly, "but the words seem almost inadequate."

Carlton was silent as he kept working on Shawn's wrist, watching color come back into the broken skin. Before he switched to the other wrist, he planted a quick kiss to the palm of Shawn's hand, ignoring the man's quirked eyebrow at his actions. He wasn't sure what it said about him that the casually affectionate gestures were coming easier and easier to him.

He did the same to Shawn's other wrist, focusing intently on his task. Then he just sat there, holding Shawn's hands in a loose grip. The younger man was uncharacteristically silent, not pulling away as he looked at Carlton.

"I wanted to kill Mason," Carlton finally admitted. "When I got back to the station and realized that you were missing, I wanted to kill him."

There was more he wanted to say, like how scared he'd been when he realized that Shawn was missing, that moment when he'd had an inkling of just how much the younger man meant to him. But, he couldn't force the words past his lips, so he just kept holding on and hoped that the younger man really was as good at reading people as he seemed.

"Well, I'm glad you didn't kill him," Shawn told him. When Carlton looked at him in surprise, he elaborated, "It would be kind of hard for us to go on a date if you were being investigated by Internal Affairs."

Carlton had to smile at that. "I got your note," he told the younger man.

"Yeah," Shawn said, ruefully, "I think I might have to miss dinner, tonight. I don't think I'm really up to doing anything right now that doesn't involve going home and collapsing."

"You could always come over to my place," Carlton said, trying to keep his voice casual. "I could cook us both dinner."

Shawn froze at his words, and Carlton marveled at how little it took to stun the other man into silence.

"You can cook?" Shawn asked, but Carlton was pretty sure that wasn't what he meant to say.

"I'm pretty good at it," Carlton told him. "So, what do you say?"

He pulled Shawn to his feet, reaching out to catch him when he started swaying. Carlton wrapped his arms around Shawn's waist to keep him standing, supporting the younger man when he leaned against him.

"I can't believe I'm about to say this," Shawn told him, "but I'm going to have to take a rain check on dinner."

"I'll hold you to that, then," Carlton said, getting a smile from Shawn. "For, now, let's just get you home."


	7. Tell me you didn't go to the hospital

**Author's Note: **Sorry this took so long to get up. Thanks to everyone who's been reading and reviewing.

**"Tell me you didn't go the hospital and get a brain scan." (time: young)**

Shawn didn't speak to Carlton for the next two days, but this time, he had the feeling that the older man wasn't trying to avoid him. Things were just so busy, at the station and at Psych, that they hadn't been able to get two seconds alone, together.

The longest they'd even seen each other had been a day ago, when they passed each other as Carlton was coming out of the Chief's office. And even then, Shawn had barely managed to get out a hello before Carlton was called away by Buzz, with a question from the younger man.

It was starting to drive him crazy. He'd wanted time to think about how he felt about Carlton, but this was getting ridiculous. He even wondered if there was some cosmic force out there that didn't want him and Carlton getting together. He certainly wouldn't put it past the universe to mess with his love life.

The one bright spot was that Gus had finally gotten enough of a break at his regular job to come back to Psych. But, even that was ruined by the fact that Gus just wanted to talk to him about Carlton. And he had no idea how to talk to Gus about his feelings for Carlton, when he couldn't even talk to himself about those feelings.

The phone rang, suddenly, jolting him out of his thoughts, and he lunged forward to grab the cordless off its base.

"Psych," he answered, automatically. "Psychic detectives, at your service."

"I want to hire you to find out who's been stealing from me," the woman on the other end of the line said, and that was just the start of the chaos that marked the rest of the day.

Psych's phone lines were off the hook, all day, and when Gus was called back into his regular job, after another rep called in sick, Shawn found himself handling everything on his own. It was all mostly small stuff, a missing dog, a cheating husband, nothing that he even had to call the police in about, but it kept him on his toes.

He was even too busy to answer his cell phone, letting the messages to go voicemail and checking on them when he could. But, luckily, none of the messages were about cases from the police. Three of the calls were from Carlton, but the older man didn't leave any messages, and Shawn spared a moment to wonder if he was ruining any chance he might have had at a relationship before it even began.

He finally had a chance to just sit and breathe, later in the day, and he slumped in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him and his eyes closed in exhaustion. He didn't even look up when the bell over the door jangled.

"If you're here to rob the place, I don't keep any cash on hand," he said, without opening his eyes.

"It would be a pretty stupid thief, to rob a psychic," a familiar voice spoke up. "If they could find anything in this mess to steal, that is."

Shawn opened his eyes, straightening to see Carlton walking across the office. He smiled at the sight of the older man and stood to greet him, but he was pulled up short when the muscles in his back seized up, protesting the sudden movement.

"Ow," he groaned, sinking back down into the chair.

"You look like hell," Carlton told him.

"Fell out of a tree," Shawn told him, whimpering in pain as his neck cracked when he moved.

"How'd you manage that?" Carlton asked, with a laugh.

"Cat up a tree, hysterical kid, and a frantic mother," Shawn said. "Stupid cat clawed my arms up when I tried to grab it, and then it made its leisurely way down to the ground. I, meanwhile, took the express via gravity."

"At least you didn't break anything, this time," Carlton told him.

"Just my pride," Shawn muttered.

He flinched at another muscle spasm, and then he froze at the feel of hands on his shoulders. He didn't move, even when Carlton started kneading out the knots at the base of his neck.

"I've never heard you this speechless, before," Carlton commented, when he was silent for several long seconds.

"I'm afraid that if I say anything, you'll stop," Shawn told him, finally allowing himself to relax into the other man's touch. "But, please don't, because that feels really good."

Carlton just chuckled, continuing the shoulder rub, and Shawn marveled at the softer side of the other man that he was finally getting to see.

"So, it turns out that I don't have any tumors," Carlton said, casually, and it took Shawn a second to get it.

Craning his head back, he stared incredulously up at Carlton.

"Tell me you didn't go to the hospital and get a brain scan," he said, accusingly, and a faint blush crept over Carlton's cheeks. "Of course you did," he went on. "Look who I'm talking to."

"Well, I had to be sure," Carlton muttered, defensively, and that was all it took to set Shawn off.

He started laughing, and pretty soon he was bent over and gasping for breath. Taking a seat in Gus's chair, Carlton waited for him to finish.

"Only you," Shawn managed to gasp out, "would think that having a brain tumor was a better alternative than being attracted to me."

Carlton blushed, harder, and didn't say anything in reply.

"So, even without the presence of personality-altering brain lesions," Shawn asked, when he'd calmed down, "are we still on for dinner?"

"Dinner sounds good," Carlton told him. "The trick is finding two seconds to actually be able to go out. I had to lie to O'Hara just to be able to come out here."

"Actually," Shawn said, hardly believing the words that were about to leave his mouth, "before we go any further with this, there's something I need to tell you."

"You're not psychic," Carlton said, dryly, while Shawn was still psyching himself up to actually admit the truth. "That's not news, Shawn, that's something I figured out a while back."

Shawn stared at him in amazement, unable to figure out which had him more stunned. That Carlton knew the truth about him, or that he'd just called him by his first name.

"What I can't figure out," Carlton went on, oblivious to his shock, "is how you're doing it."

"Eidetic memory," Shawn said, faintly, wondering where the anger was.

He'd been expecting an explosion to rival Mount Vesuvius, not this calm man sitting across from him. Maybe brain tumors had been ruled out, but Shawn was starting to wonder if alien possession or body swapping were possibilities.

"You're not pissed," he finally said, bluntly, even as he wondered if he was crazy for pushing his luck.

"You've done a lot of good working with the police over the last four years," Carlton explained. "And, as annoying as it is, you have a one hundred percent solve rate. I figure that affords you a little leeway."

"Wow," was all Shawn could manage. "I never thought I'd hear a compliment leaving your lips. Are you sure that MRI came back clean?"

Carlton smirked at him. "Very funny," he said. "So, what do you mean when you say you have an eidetic memory?"

"My dad trained me to be a cop," Shawn explained. "Heightened observation and near-perfect recall."

"So, then, why not become a cop?" Carlton asked. "With skills like that, you'd be able to do pretty much anything you wanted."

"Have you met me?" Shawn asked, rhetorically. "Besides, I like being a private investigator."

"Except when it leads to you falling out of trees," Carlton pointed out, and Shawn had to agree with him.

"There are some downsides," he admitted. "But, even you would have climbed after that cat when faced with that screaming kid."

"You never did say when you wanted to go to dinner," Carlton reminded him.

"Why not tonight?" Shawn asked, but then he trailed off when Psych's phone started ringing, insistently.

Carlton's cell phone started ringing almost at the same time, and the other man glared at the offending device in disgust.

"That's why not tonight," he said, annoyance plain in his voice.

He answered the phone with an abrupt greeting, but then Shawn had to block him out in order to pay attention to his own phone call. He took down the details of his latest client, and then he hung the phone up and turned to look at Carlton.

"Tomorrow," Shawn said, decisively. "No phones, no interruptions, just the two of us going out to dinner. Even if it kills us."

"With the way things have been going, it just might," Carlton retorted. "Pick you up at eight?"

"It's a date," Shawn agreed.

He walked with Carlton to the door, stopping the other man before he could leave the office.

"You know," he commented, "now that we've got dinner plans, this could mark the start of our actual relationship."

"And what does that make everything that happened before now?" Carlton asked, curiously.

"Practice," Shawn told him, "in anticipation for the real thing."

"So, what's so significant about this being the real thing?" Carlton asked.

Rather than answering, Shawn leaned forward and pressed his lips against the other man's, winding his arms around Carlton's neck as he deepened the kiss. To his delight, Carlton kissed him back, his own arms going around Shawn's waist as he pulled him closer. When Shawn finally pulled away, Carlton had a slightly dazed look on his face.

"That means that was our first official kiss," he told the other man. "Which means that I was the one who kissed you, first. See you at eight," he reminded Carlton, and then he shut the door on the man's stunned expression.


	8. I figured that if I didn't kiss you now

**Author's Note: **I'm sorry that it took so long to get this chapter up; my muse temporarily deserted me for this story. Can't figure out why, it's not like the boys are hard on the eyes :) Thank you to everyone who's been reading and reviewing. You guys are awesome.

**"I figured that if I didn't kiss you, now, I wasn't going to be able to think about anything else for the rest of the night." (greetings: hello)**

As he rejected yet another shirt that he pulled off a hanger in his closet, Carlton wondered exactly when he'd lost his mind. He'd never expended this much effort for a date, before, except for maybe with Vicki. Yet, here he was obsessing about the clothes he was planning to wear on a date. A date with Shawn Spencer, no less.

And, maybe, he mused, that was when the insanity had started. After all, kissing the man (multiple, really good kisses, his traitorous little voice in the back of his mind chimed in) was one thing; going out on a date, in public, around _people_, was another thing altogether. It was different, a more intense level than what they'd done so far, more permanent.

And, God knew, he was really bad at permanent.

Look how badly he'd screwed up his marriage. And that was supposed to have been easy. He and Victoria had so much in common; they'd clicked on so many levels. There were days when he still wondered just how it had all gone wrong.

This thing with Shawn, though, whatever it might have been, this was so much more different. He and Shawn had really nothing in common, outside of chasing murderers. And, even there, they were completely opposite. There was so much potential for things to go wrong, and the thought of that made his stomach twist, unpleasantly.

_'Don't borrow trouble,'_ he could almost hear his brother scolding him. _'Just take it one date at a time.'_

That thought, that there might be more dates after this one, also made his stomach twist. But, this time it wasn't unpleasant. It almost reminded him of the feeling he'd had in high school, as he was getting ready to escort Vicki to their prom.

"I am too old to be nervous about a first date," he told himself, firmly, as he resolutely grabbed a shirt and pulled it on without looking at it.

He buttoned the shirt, and then he muttered a quiet curse under his breath when he checked his reflection in the mirror and realized that he'd missed a button. He started over, moving slower to keep from messing up, again, but he hesitated before he buttoned the topmost buttons on the shirt. He could still remember Shawn's teasing comments about his chest hair, only now he wondered if the words hadn't been so lighthearted.

_'I need to stop over-thinking this,'_ Carlton told himself, firmly, when his hands still hovered over the buttons. _'It's just a couple of damn buttons.'_

Resolutely, he let his hands fall to his sides, resisting the urge to reach up and fiddle with his shirt some more. Instead, he turned away from the mirror and continued to get ready. It took him less time than he'd anticipated, and he found himself standing in the middle of his bedroom at seven-oh-five, completely ready for a date that wasn't going to start for another hour.

He puttered around the house for a little while, managing to distract himself with mundane tasks like unloading the dishwasher and taking out the garbage. But, when he looked at his watch, he'd only managed to waste another fifteen minutes.

He paced restlessly for another two minutes before finally giving up and grabbing his keys from the hook by the front door. So be it, he was just going to be early. And he didn't want to think about how eager that made him look.

Another ten minutes, and he was parking his car in front of Shawn's apartment building. The butterflies had started up in his stomach, again, but he ignored the sensation as he got out and headed into the building. Shawn's apartment was on the fifth floor, and he tapped his foot impatiently during the elevator ride, trying to block out the annoying music being piped in through the speakers.

He found himself standing in front of Shawn's door, although he couldn't exactly recall the walk down the hallway from the elevator. Ringing the doorbell, he had a fleeting moment where he hoped that Shawn wasn't home. Then, the door opened under his hand and he stared into a pair of warm, hazel eyes.

He expected Shawn to make some crack about how nervous he looked, but, surprisingly, the other man was quiet. He was staring at Carlton with a strange expression on his face, and Carlton was faintly amused by the way Shawn's eyes kept flickering to the patch of hair visible on his chest.

Shawn opened his mouth, but then he shook his head a moment later, his teeth clicking shut with a sharp sound. Then, he reached forward and grabbed a handful of Carlton's shirt, pulling him forward and kissing him, deeply.

Carlton automatically steadied himself with his hands at Shawn's waist, holding on as they deepened the kiss. Shawn still had one hand fisted in the front of his shirt, and his free hand snaked up to wrap around the back of his neck, his fingers hot like a brand on Carlton's skin.

Finally, reluctantly, he pulled away, although his hand stayed where it was on Carlton's neck.

"Hi," Shawn said, a particularly husky quality to his voice that shot through Carlton like a bolt of lightning.

"Hi, yourself," Carlton said, teasingly, feeling the uneasy knot in his stomach loosening as he looked at the younger man. "What was that about?"

"Well," Shawn told him, "I figured that if I didn't kiss you, now, I wasn't going to be able to think about anything else for the rest of the night."

"Well, then," Carlton said, and he surprised even himself by pulling Shawn in for another kiss. "While we're getting things out of the way-"

Shawn's lips were soft on his, one hand playing with the short strands of Carlton's hair while the other moved to the patch of skin displayed by his open shirt. Carlton could feel his breath hitch in his throat as Shawn ran his fingers gently through the clearly-sensitive hair on his chest, and he made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl as Shawn tugged lightly on the hair.

Shawn moved back easily as Carlton pressed him up against his doorframe, pressing their bodies together. He could feel Shawn smiling against his mouth as he rocked his hips up, evidence of his arousal pressing against his leg. The smile fell off Shawn's face as Carlton switched tactics, though, the kiss he pressed against the sensitive hollow of the other man's throat eliciting a choked gasp.

Then, the sound of a throat clearing had them both jumping about a foot in the air.

Carlton could practically feel himself levitate as he sprang away from Shawn, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. His heart was racing from the thrill, and from having been caught. And when he snuck a glance over at Shawn, he could see the same redness reflected on the other man's face.

When he managed to look over at the person who'd interrupted them, he saw an elderly woman standing in the middle of the hallway with an amused smirk on her face.

"You boys shouldn't stop on my account," she said, and there was almost a wicked gleam in her eyes as she looked at them.

"Mrs. Stephenson, can I help you with something?" Shawn asked, and his voice sounded ragged, like he was having a hard time forming the words.

"Oh, my sink is backed up, again," the older woman said, switching her gaze to Shawn. "I was wondering if you could take a look at it?"

"I'll be right there," Shawn assured the woman, faintly.

"Thank you so much, dear," the older woman said, with a beaming smile, and then she turned and shuffled slowly back down the hall, leaning heavily on her cane.

"Well, that was-" Carlton started, once the older woman was out of earshot, but he trailed off, unable to think of how to continue.

"My eighty-five year old neighbor just caught us necking like horny teenagers," Shawn said, a disbelieving note in his voice. "I'm never going to be able to look her in the eye, again."

"I don't know," Carlton said, thoughtfully. "It didn't look she minded, so much."

Shawn stared at him in amazement, and then a slow smile crept across his face. After a moment, he started laughing quietly, his shoulders shaking with the force of it.

"Dinner," he finally gasped out, as he wiped away the tears from his eyes. "I seem to remember you promising me food at some point, and I'm not about to let you out of it."

"So, dinner, and then we can go back to acting like horny teenagers?" Carlton asked, and Shawn grinned.

"Sounds like a plan," he said.


	9. I wouldn't let the job come between us

**Author's Note: **Sorry this chapter took so long. It wasn't coming out at all, until Gus popped up and demanded his own chapter. So, here you go, Gus on Shassie (that came out wrong).

**"For the record, I never would have let the job come between us." (greetings: goodbye)**

_'You,'_ Gus thought, as he looked at himself in the mirror of the men's restroom, _'are one lucky son of a bitch.'_

After nearly two weeks of endless effort, he'd finally managed to get the cute new rep to agree to go out to dinner with him. He'd even scored hard-to-get reservations at Via Maestra 42, a move that he was sure had managed to win him some points.

Now, he just had to hope that she showed up.

Leaving the restroom, he headed back toward the table that he'd been sitting at for the last fifteen minutes. He winced when he saw that the second chair was still empty, but he quickly schooled his face into an impassive mask as he sat down. If Janna did happen to show up, he didn't want to give her any reason to think that he wasn't looking forward to their evening.

She finally arrived nearly five minutes later, and he stood up as she was guided to the table by the maitre de, pulling her chair out for her and waiting as she sat down.

"I'm so sorry that I'm late," Janna said, batting her eyes at him as he sat down across from her. "I couldn't find anything that I liked in my closet."

"You look lovely," Gus assured her, and then when a shadowed expression flickered across her face, he wondered if he should have said beautiful or stunning, instead.

But, he didn't have any time to dwell on it, as their waiter arrived bearing menus. They dwelled on the menus for a few minutes, and Gus managed to keep his eyes from popping out of their sockets when Janna ordered one of the more expensive items on the menu as casually as anyone else would ask for water.

_'Maybe I should have budgeted a full paycheck for dinner,'_ he thought, ruefully.

He went with something that wasn't likely to make his credit card implode, and they sat back and made small talk while they waited for their food to arrive. Conversation was stilted at first, and Gus was wondering if he'd made a mistake. But, eventually, Janna loosened up enough to laugh at his stories from work, sharing her own tales of woe and crazy doctors, and it seemed like they were really hitting it off.

At least, until Janna broke off in the middle of a sentence to stare over his shoulder, a frown marring her delicate features.

"What's wrong?" Gus asked, wondering what it said about him that his first thought was that some kind of crime was going on. Probably too much time spent working for Psych.

Janna shook her head, a disgusted expression flashing so quickly across her face that he was almost convinced that he'd imagined it.

"You'd think that some people would have more decency," she muttered, clearly trying not to be overheard.

"What's wrong?" Gus repeated, insistently, looking around and half-expecting to find someone having sex on a table. All his quick glance revealed were happy people all enjoying their dinners.

"Them," Janna said, shortly, jerking her chin over his shoulder, and Gus twisted around in his seat to look in the direction she'd indicated.

For a second, he didn't see what had her so worked up. Then, his gaze landed on a table in the corner, and a pair of men sitting across from each other. They were leaning close to each other as one of the men held a forkful of food out to the other, reaching out with his free hand to wipe a bit of sauce away from his companion's mouth after the fork was empty.

Then, the second man sat back in his chair, chuckling at something the first man had said, and Gus smirked when he recognized Carlton Lassiter. He looked closer, and he wasn't too surprised to see that the other man was Shawn.

Okay, maybe he was a little surprised. He would never have expected Lassiter, of all people, to be out on a date with another man, least of all Shawn. Honestly, multiple kisses aside (and that, in itself, was just absolutely baffling), there was a tiny part of Gus that had wondered if Lassiter was just screwing with his friend.

But, seeing the two men, now, Gus would very happily admit that he had been wrong. Shawn looked happier and more relaxed than he had in a while and Lassiter had a genuine smile on his face that Gus was pretty sure he'd never seen before. At least not when guns weren't involved.

Janna made a sound from behind him, and Gus turned back around to see his date looking away from the two men with a scowl firmly fixed on her face.

"Don't get me wrong," she said, hastily, catching sight of some expression on his face, "I don't have any problem with gay guys."

"But-" Gus prompted, sensing that she wasn't finished.

"But, they don't have to go flaunting it in public, you know?" she continued, blithely. "I mean, some of us are trying to eat, here."

"Yeah," Gus said, slowly. "Right."

He flagged down their waiter as the man passed by a couple of seconds later, motioning for the check. The man produced a slim leather book about a minute later, and Gus wordlessly scanned the receipt, scrawling a hefty tip at the bottom and slipping his card into the pocket at the top. He handed the bill back to the waiter and looked up to see Janna watching him in amazement.

"What was that about?" she demanded, and Gus gave her a tight smile.

"I think our evening is over," he told her, bluntly. "Don't worry about dinner, feel free to take your food home and enjoy it there. I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"Wait a minute," Janna said, glaring at him. "Are you seriously dumping me over a couple of-"

"Those _men_," Gus cut her off, emphatically, "are two very dear friends of mine, and I couldn't be happier for them. And you and I have nothing more to discuss."

Janna stared at him, her mouth opening and closely, wordlessly, making her look like a fish. Then, she stormed off and left him alone at the table, so angry that Gus wouldn't have been surprised to see steam coming out of her ears.

His evening was effectively over, but Gus really didn't feel like going back to his apartment just yet. So, he ambled over to the bar, settling on one of the stools and staring morosely at the glittering selection of liquor bottles behind the bar. He'd just ordered a beer from one of the bartenders when someone sat down on the stool next to him; he didn't have to look up to know who it was.

"Saw you with that woman," Shawn started, hesitantly, and Gus sighed.

"Of course you did," he muttered.

"Was it because of us?" Shawn asked, bluntly.

"It was totally because of you," Gus told him. Then, before Shawn could start apologizing, he added, "And it was totally worth it, too."

"Gus-"

"You are the closest thing I have to a brother," Gus told him, finally looking over and meeting the other man's eyes. "And Lassiter is a good guy, and a hell of a cop, and the closest thing I'll likely ever have to a brother-in-law, since I'll kill any guy who even looks at Joy-"

"Gus, point," Shawn said, pointedly, as he started to ramble.

"Right," Gus cut himself off. "My point is that if whoever I'm with can't handle you and Lassiter, then she's not worth it."

"Thanks, man," Shawn said, quietly, clearly touched by his declaration. "Although, I don't know if Carlton and I are as serious as you think."

"You're calling each other by your first names, and he ate off your fork," Gus reminded him. "And I'd say the fact that you both decided on one of the most expensive restaurants in Santa Barbara says something about your respective levels of commitment."

"No, what it says is that I'm going to be broke in the morning," Lassiter spoke up from behind them, making Gus jump about a foot in the air, even though Shawn didn't even twitch.

"Thought we were going Dutch treat," Shawn commented, spinning on his stool to face Lassiter.

"When a man asks a date out-" Lassiter started.

"Then, I should be paying, because I asked you," Shawn interrupted him.

"But, I asked you first," Lassiter said, stubbornly.

"No, you offered to cook," Shawn reminded him. "I'm the one who brought up the whole dinner idea in the first place."

"I'll pay for both your meals if it'll stop this crazy argument," Gus muttered under his breath, the sudden silence following his statement telling him that he hadn't been as quiet as he'd been hoping for.

"We're making Gus blush," Shawn said, a smirk on his face.

Before Lassiter could say anything in response, both his and Shawn's cell phones rang. Both of them dug their phones out of their pockets, moving away to give the other privacy. But, they weren't so far away that Gus couldn't hear both of their conversations, and from what he could gather, they'd just caught a case.

"Time to go to work," Shawn said, with a sigh, as he clicked his phone off and shoved it back in his pocket. "Gus, you want?"

"I'll be right behind you," Gus told him.

He'd already started for the door when he realized that Shawn and Lassiter weren't following him. Shawn had started, but Lassiter had stopped him with a hand on his elbow, a strange expression on his face.

"I don't want to end our evening like this," Lassiter said, quietly, as Shawn moved back into his space. "From personal straight to work – I've had too many relationships go down the drain because I let the job come between us-"

Shawn put a finger to Lassiter's lips, cutting the older man off, mid-sentence. He pulled Lassiter down into a slow kiss, his hand resting on Lassiter's cheek as they parted.

"For the record," he said, quietly, "I never would have let the job come between us."

Lassiter nodded, quietly, an almost peaceful expression coming over his face.

"Now, let's go catch a murderer," Shawn added, with a grin.


End file.
